


chastisement by blows

by venus woman and giant saurian (grayglube)



Category: From Dusk Till Dawn: The Series
Genre: Bad Things Happen Bingo, F/M, The Rack, Xibalba - Freeform, consensual torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:00:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22782928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grayglube/pseuds/venus%20woman%20and%20giant%20saurian
Summary: “This isn’t healthy,” she tells him.No, he thinks, it’s not.
Relationships: Kate Fuller/Richard Gecko
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	chastisement by blows

**Author's Note:**

> for the bad thing bingo square for "stress position"

Her joints creak before they pop, screeching like a dry rag being wrung, on the rack like a girl martyr taking forever to die, but she won’t, she can’t, better built now than she ever was and the only thing that’s real is the pain.

The liminal space between the pen and the labyrinth is on the edge of every breath, taut as the line of her arms raised back behind her, the dislocation of her senses following the dislocation of her shoulders where pain is a ground wire.

Her fingers pinch, twitching into numbness and her neck aches like her thighs.

She can barely breathe, let alone speak, useless obscenities have died on her tongue and under their eyes as she shakes in abortive jerks.

A man asks a question and she laughs until his weight on the crank steals all humor from her.

“You’ll kill her,” the man’s brother says.

“Then I’ll really be dead,” she croaks back, interrupting.

Soon her skin will begin to shred, soon she’ll begin to bleed.

“Better late than never,” the man answers, pushing again until she’s ripped apart, until she’s warm with blood, until it’s his brother gnawing on her bones.

* * *

In Xibalba all his dreams were true, outside of it he tries to make amends.

He’s not sorry for much, lacking the capacity for remorse more now than even when he was admittedly less in possession of his own mind, but he’s sorry for what’s befallen her.

It might have been better if she’d just stayed dead.

Or if he’d given her his venom to forestall a more terrible violation, a more complete possession of body and mind.

She tells him, not for the first time that he's not dreaming, that he's not hallucinating either.

At first, he barely believes her.

* * *

“Is this really what you want?” she asks, dubious of his intentions, of him in general, he thinks.

He nods, not trusting his tongue.

“It’s not the same,” she tells him even while she’s pulling his arms up anyway, leaving him to his penance, hands harsher than they are efficient, he nearly arches into them.

When she cuts him down he thinks that nothing kinder has ever been done for him, nothing sweeter, before his nerves turn to knives as feeling returns, biting viciously.

“I’m sorry,” he tells her like he’s begging.

“She was still inside me,” she tells him like he didn’t know, like he’d been as easy to trick as his brother even before she’d vomited blood and gone red eyed on the rack again.

* * *

His dreams are bloody things.

_“I’m inside you now.”_

And it’s him saying it.

And she’d been a pile of meat strewn in four different directions, pulled apart by greed or hope or something that wasn’t kindness at all.

* * *

“This isn’t healthy,” she tells him.

No, he thinks, it’s not.

But she puts a small sneakered foot between his shoulders and pushes him to the limits of his endurance.

“What are you repenting for?” she asks.

“Making you come here.”

And he’s the one vomiting blood, a snake slithers up through the ruddy soil like a fish leaping from water.

* * *

She holds up a target in some amalgamation of every bar, truck stop, firestorm liquor store he’s ever taken a wound in.

She’s whole again and grunting when the knives sink in.

It’s perfect aim and he grins, smug, turns to collect his earnings which swim in a bowl of entrails and vitals.

His dreams are disjointed things where she's becomes a disjointed thing.

* * *

“Can’t you get off the normal way?”

“It’s not like that,” he pushes out between grit teeth, ribs cinched up tight.

She prods between his legs roughly with the ball of her foot.

“You’re hard as a rock.”

He’s in Hell.

He’s unrelieved.

Sometimes Xibalba feels like his reddest, wettest dreams.

He wonders if it's the same for her, if she's ever felt less than tame.

* * *

He’s supposed to be able to tell, knows that if she talks about his cock or if one of them starts bleeding then it’s not real, wonders if any of it’s been real, if anything besides his own guilt could be a better touchstone.

* * *

“I don’t remember what it felt like,” she tells him.

“Liar.”

“I didn’t enjoy it as much as you are.”

“It’s because you’re doing it to me. I deserve this.”

“It’s disgusting.”

“Yeah. I am.”

He can smell her thrill though, the blossom of it in her blood, can see her smile as red as the dead sun or the dyed bones ground into sand beneath her feet.

She leverages her weight against the crank, pulling him apart and putting him back together again in turns.

* * *

She’s shackled like a centerfold, wrist to ankle in bone and ancient spellwork.

“Un-fucking-likely,” he breathes as she undulates in faux distress.

It might be the hospital gown or the wide eye fear-lust but it seeps into him.

“Hurry up and spring me.”

He raises a brow, considers how tightly she holds her pale knees together.

“This doesn’t feel like Hell,” he tells her, wondering if she’d shudder if he stroked the bony knob of her fragile ankle.

Her face twists, a snarl, teeth clicking, eyes neon rage, shackles holding even as she thrashes.

Turnabout is less than kind his gorge rises like a snake writhing back up his gullet when the bone binding her crumbles to dust.

Suddenly straitjacketed, he’s stuck on his knees, waiting at her naked feet for some new kind of punishment.

And then it feels more like Hell than ever before.

* * *

“How long are we going to do this?” she asks him.

“Do you forgive me yet?”

She scoffs.

His suit seams give before the tendons or ligaments do.


End file.
